


Four Years Later

by ImprobableDreams900



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bad Things Happen To Cecil, Carlos is a Good Boyfriend, Cecil is Mostly Human, Cecil is immortal, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Mild Language, Possible Season 4 Finale, references to "Cassettes", temporary major character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-28
Updated: 2015-07-28
Packaged: 2018-04-11 16:16:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4442579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImprobableDreams900/pseuds/ImprobableDreams900
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been four years since Carlos first arrived in Night Vale, and he is planning to propose.</p><p>Meanwhile, Kevin finally escapes the desert otherworld and decides that the only way he can be with Carlos is if Cecil is out of the picture—permanently.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> As of the time of writing, "Taking Off" and "Review" are the two newest episodes. This is a hypothetical season four finale, based solely on the events of seasons 1 through 3. 
> 
> And, gosh darn it, for the first time in my miserable life I've written a couple who are emotionally secure! I pulled some inspiration from this lovely tumblr post: http://improbabledreams900.tumblr.com/post/123375393578/a-post-about-romantic-relationships

It wasn’t the first time Cecil had died.

 

~~~***~~~

 

It felt like someone was digging claws into his insides, twisting left and right as Cecil tried to pull himself down the hallway using only the floor and his own shaking fingers.

Every stuttering breath was broken and wet, and each inhale rattled in his lungs and burned at his eyes.

His entire stomach was white-hot with pain, and he had long ago ceased to feel anything past his hips.

His hair kept falling in his face, and his eyes were blurred with tears, and his chest felt like it was filling with molten lead, but he had to keep going.

He had to. The station was still broadcasting. There was a chance he could still reach Carlos…

There was a hazy darkness swimming around the edges of his vision, but Cecil blinked it away as more tears poured down his cheeks.

_Gods_ , it just hurt so _much_.

His breath caught as he pulled himself another two inches down the hallway towards the recording studio, and didn’t come back.

He dropped his head down, trying desperately to inhale, but he was shaking violently and seemed to have lost all control of the muscles clenching his throat closed.

A wave of dizziness swept over him and suddenly he couldn’t feel anything at all.

Then he choked and all at once there was air in his lungs, and his cheek was pressed to the faded gray carpet, and he was shaking worse than ever and the claws were back, twisting through his abdomen as he shook against the floor.

He couldn’t suppress the tiny, shaking, pain-filled whimper that escaped his lips, or the fresh wave of tears down his cheeks. He just wanted to be okay, or to not be at all.

He just wanted Carlos.

Cecil forced his head up, squinting through his blurred vision for the door to the studio. He swung his head back around in the direction he’d come.

The unpainted door at the end of the hall was closed. It had not been before.

Cecil had no chance of reading the tiny brass plaque screwed onto the front of the door from this distance and angle, but he didn’t need to. He already knew what it said.

Station Management.

 

~~~***~~~

 

Two Hours Earlier

 

Carlos hummed quietly to himself as his car sped across the desert flats, tapping his thumb absently against the steering wheel in time to the music blaring from the stereo.

The scientist glanced over at the side-view mirror, watching Night Vale’s western edge recede behind him.

His eyes flicked up to the desert in front of him and then back to the town, and he took his foot off the gas.

He let the car coast for a hundred yards or so and then hit the brake. He put the car in park, pulled the key out of the ignition, and climbed out, his hand dropping casually into his pocket to ensure its contents were still there. He circled around to the trunk and popped it to reveal several boxes of scientific equipment.

Out of habit, Carlos glanced back over at the town that was his home every few minutes as he starting pulling equipment out and setting it up in a small circle twenty feet from the road.

Having just finished a small project documenting Night Vale’s numerous freshwater fish, Carlos had decided to move onto mapping the various seismological tremors in the town and the surrounding desert.

He’d spent the better part of the week rigging up his seismological detectors in strategic locations, and when he was done he should be able to record the magnitude and triangulate the origin point of every shiver in the earth, regardless if it was invisible to the everyday senses.

Carlos was still working on setting up the generator when his phone buzzed. He pulled it unhurriedly out of his pocket and glanced at the screen.

_Hoping to be seeing you real soon, honey bunches!_

Carlos frowned at the screen. He’d been getting messages like this for months now—all loving, admiring, adoring, or a combination of the three. They were from an anonymous number, so for weeks he’d naturally assumed Cecil was behind it.

But when he’d brought it up to Cecil in jest, the radio host had denied all knowledge, and even demanded to see the number. He was fairly certain Cecil’s crusade (both on-air and through his network of friends and municipal connections) to identify the scientist’s secret admirer had led nowhere, which Carlos saw as having positives and negatives.

On the bright side, Cecil wasn’t about to drive another poor soul out of town on his account (he still felt terrible about Telly).

But on the other hand, he was stuck getting awkward, very much unwanted texts from some strange person. He’d tried texting back that they had the wrong number, or asking them to please stop, but nothing helped. He’d tried blocking the number several times and had even switched phones once, but the texts persisted.

So Carlos had sighed and given up. Besides, he figured, it wasn’t like he was getting death threats or anything, and there were definitely worse types of anonymous texts he could be getting.

So he’d added the number to his contacts under the name “Creeper” and did his best to ignore the texts.

The power generator twitched unhappily under Carlos’s hands and the scientist hurriedly turned his attention back to the machine as it growled angrily at him in a way that wasn’t entirely un-sentient.

Twenty minutes later, Carlos had leashed the generator to a nearby cactus and was working on setting up some tripods, studiously ignoring the sounds of the generator scrambling in the dirt behind him, trying to break free.

It was amazing how much Night Vale could change a person in four years.

And it had been four years, almost to the day. Marking the exact passage of time was a bit tricky in a town where all the clocks ran at different rates, and sometimes backwards or sideways. But Cecil and he had agreed to mark the date by the time on Cecil’s watch, which was the same one Carlos had brought into Night Vale with him so very long ago.

Four whole years later. He still had the scars from the encounter at the bowling alley, hidden beneath the layers of flannel and lab coat. And then of course his and Cecil’s one year anniversary had been less than perfect, what with the StrexCorp invasion and the unraveling of the universe and all that. And then the entirety of Year Three he had spent in the desert otherworld.

What a waste of a year that had been.

Carlos suppressed a sigh at the mere thought; he still had conflicting feelings about his time there, though he always came back to the conclusion that it had been right of him to leave, and he was glad he’d done it. It was one of those things where, in hindsight, he could see himself having very easily gone either way, though the correct choice was very clear to him now. He was just greatly relieved he’d done the right thing at the time.

And now it was the anniversary of his arrival in Night Vale four years ago, and of his relationship with Cecil for three.

His mouth twitched up into a smile at the thought, and his hand dropped back into his lab coat pocket.

Carlos glanced around briefly just to make sure he was alone, and then took a moment to pull the tiny purple velvet box out of his pocket.

He slowly popped the lid open with his thumb and gazed down at the amethyst and onyx ring carefully nestled in the white silk.

He felt a smile creep involuntarily over his face just at the sight of it, and simultaneously felt his palms get sweaty. He quickly popped the box closed again and tucked it back into his pocket, running his hands nervously down his jeans to try to calm himself down.

He’d bought the ring two weeks ago, and had been stressing ever since about the best place and way to pop the question. He’d even gone and discreetly asked Old Woman Josie if there was any particular way in Night Vale that it was done, and she’d merely clapped him on the back and told him that she was sure he’d figure it out, which Carlos interpreted to mean that he was pretty much on his own.

But should he do it at their house? The lab? The radio station? Maybe the Arby’s parking lot, or Mission Grove Park?

Their house might work, he had reflected, though the Faceless Old Woman would be breathing down their necks the whole time. He felt choosing either the lab or the station might focus too much on their work lives, and there was just something unflattering about being proposed to in the parking lot of a fast food restaurant, no matter how beautiful the lights above it were. For a while he’d considered Mission Grove Park, where he and Cecil had gone on their first date, but was waffling on that too. It was often filled with people pointing at the sky and screaming, which might be a little off-putting, and Carlos would be the first to admit that that date had gone less than spectacularly.

So here it was, the day of, and he still didn’t have a game plan.

Carlos ran nervously through some lines in his head, trying to come up with some clever way to bring the question up. His best idea went something like:

 

CARLOS: So, Cecil, you know how in science there are laws?

CECIL (dreamily): Yeah?

CARLOS: And these laws are immutable and absolute. Things like gravity, and inertia, and electromagnetism.

CECIL (still dreamily): Yeah?

CARLOS: But of all those laws, of all the principles and theories and postulates of the entire scientific world, do you know what single thing I know with the most certainty?

CECIL (dreamily, yet curiously): What?

CARLOS: That, the rest of my life—I want to spend it with you.

 

But then as he played through it in his head, Carlos realized that it would really play out something more like this:

 

CARLOS: So, Cecil, you know how in science there are laws?

CECIL (only mildly interested): Yeah?

CARLOS: And these laws are immutable and absolute. Things like gravity, and inertia, and electromagnetism.

CECIL (becoming animated): Oh, but Carlos! Gravity isn’t absolute! Sometimes gravity’s effects are minimized by order of the City Council, and sometimes they turn it off completely! And inertia only works with certain creatures, and only if they’ve filled out the right paperwork. And I’ll be the first to admit that I don’t know a whole lot about that electro-whats-its, but I’m sure that’s because it’s all very complicated and scientific.

CARLOS: Yes, but, _usually_ _—_

CECIL: You can hardly say something is absolute if it’s only absolute some of the time, you know.

CARLOS (a little louder): Let us just, for the sake of conversation, _assume_ _—_

CECIL (a little quieter): Carlos, is there something in particular you want the secret police to overhear?

CECIL (a little louder): Oh, yes, sure, Carlos, whatever you say. Sure, gravity’s immutable, if you like.

CECIL (a little quieter): Is that better? Did they rescind the gravitational variability statue again? Damn, I’ll have to do some more research on that for the show tomorrow.

CECIL (after a moment): Anyway, what were you saying, hypothetically?

CARLOS: …

CARLOS: Nevermind.

 

So maybe he shouldn’t try to be clever. Maybe he should stick to being sincere. Or maybe he should come straight out with it? No, he should definitely ease into it somehow.

And should he say Cecil’s full name when he asked? He knew Cecil wasn’t over the moon about “Gershwin,” but Carlos thought it was classy and cute.

And what was he going to wear? He’d spent weeks worrying about that too, and still hadn’t reached a conclusion. He’d thought first maybe a nice dress shirt, but then he’d decided that Cecil probably liked him better in his lab coat—and then he’d promptly scrapped that, because he was trying to avoid bringing up work. But—Cecil understood he was a scientist, right? It wasn’t like his job was never going to come up, or Cecil’s for that matter—it was a substantial part of who they both were.

And suddenly Carlos wanted to change it all back again, and maybe he should wear his lab coat, and maybe he should make a science joke somewhere…?

Carlos abruptly realized the scrabbling sound in the background had stopped, and turned to see the leash hanging limply from the cactus, the frayed end hanging against some of the spines.

And there, in the distance, running away across the sand and leaving bizarre zigzag tracks, was the power generator.

“No, no, come back!” Carlos shouted, scrambling to his feet and running after it.


	2. Chapter Two

“Next up, listeners, a couple of hooded figures near the dog park reported that the dog park doors were open slightly. They noted that this was odd because they were usually closed and therefore not visible at all, replaced only by the regular smooth, shining obsidian walls.

“When it was brought to the attention of the hooded figures that surely they must know what happened, because they guard the dog park 24/7 ever since the discovery that it does, in fact, contain a desert otherworld, the hooded figures shifted guiltily and looked at the ground. The one in the back holding the mostly empty plastic Starbucks tray quickly hid it under his long robe.

“You know, listeners, I must say that this is a very interesting time for the dog park to be—albeit temporarily—open again. The last time the doors materialized and opened was when Carlos—” Cecil couldn’t suppress a smile at the memory— “my beautiful Carlos, returned home from that very same otherworld exactly one year ago. Oh, listeners, has it really been that long? Sometimes it seems like no time at all, and sometimes it seems like decades. But time is funny like that; Carlos always says—”

A sharp, high scream broke though the air, cutting Cecil off.

The radio host twisted in his chair, but there was no sign of movement near the door to the recording booth.

“Listeners,” Cecil said, keeping his voice carefully smooth and unworried, “I’m not sure if you heard that, but someone just screamed here in the studio, and I am not sure why.” Cecil’s eyes flicked from the microphone to the door and back. He remembered Carlos’ advice that, if he ever thought there was something unpleasant in the station, he should lock himself in his studio and stay there.

It wasn’t the most courageous of things to do, and Cecil wasn’t sure what was wrong with just chanting a few protection charms, but a little extra couldn’t hurt, especially if it made Carlos happy.

“Listeners,” Cecil said again, because he realized he hadn’t said anything in a few seconds, “I am going to go to the studio door and try to see if I can find out what’s going on, and then possibly lock myself in here. It is possible one of the interns simply received her monthly free emotion, and it was abject fear, but it is also possible it is something more serious.”

Cecil licked his lips and glanced back at the studio door again. “The microphone cord will not stretch all the way to the door, so I am going to leave you for just a few seconds as I peer around the door. One moment, listeners.”

Cecil quickly got up and crossed the room, covering the space in three strides. He reached for the door handle, but before his fingers could brush the cool metal, the door swung open of its own accord, revealing the man behind it.

He was neither tall nor short, not fat nor thin, and his eyes were two dark hollows. Cecil recoiled and took an involuntary step back.

“Cecil!” crooned the newcomer in a high, sunny voice, stepping into the studio and blocking the exit.

“Kevin,” Cecil acknowledged, trying to keep his tone as neutral as possible. He knew Carlos had spent some time with his double in the desert otherworld, and according to him, Kevin wasn’t too bad. But Cecil remembered all too well the other radio host’s actions in the StrexCorp invasion, and the fact that Kevin currently had a five inch long butcher knife in his hand wasn’t doing much in the way of reassurance.

“You’re _just_ the person I wanted to see,” Kevin said lavishly, his mouth splitting open into a smile, revealing teeth that had been filed to points.

“I wish I could say the same,” Cecil replied quickly, taking several steps backwards as Kevin advanced on him. Cecil’s legs bumped into his chair and he sat down, pulling the microphone over to him instinctively, as though being on the air rendered him untouchable.

“Listeners, there’s a visitor here in our station,” Cecil said hastily, his eyes never leaving Kevin. There were bloodstains on the other radio host’s faded yellow and gray pinstripe suit, and Cecil noted distractedly that his double’s hair was dusted with tan sand, and more of it was caked into the creases in his suit. “He is, I believe, fresh from the desert otherworld, and I might hazard a guess that Intern Wanda is no longer with us?” Cecil heard his voice hitch up a couple of notes and swallowed hard, trying to keep it under control.

“ _Oh_ , I’m afraid not,” Kevin agreed easily. He had stopped a couple of feet from Cecil and was now looking around the studio with interest, tapping the tip of his blood-streaked knife against his chin thoughtfully.

Cecil took a deep breath to calm himself, and continued. “To the family and friends of Intern Wanda—”

“Not too bad,” Kevin whispered to himself, and Cecil broke off nervously.

“What was that?” he asked, trying to buy time. Surely someone listening had noticed his distress and would notify the Secret Police. Carlos would be listening, if no one else. Carlos always listened. He just had to keep Kevin talking.

Kevin spun in a slow circle, taking in the entire studio, and came back to a stop facing Cecil. “This studio. You know, I think it might just work.”

“Er,” said Cecil.

“Ohh!” Kevin said suddenly, pulling the knife away from his chin to point it at Cecil in a manner that was not entirely unthreatening. “I forgot to tell you! How _silly_ of me! I’m taking over for you!”

Cecil felt his grip tighten on the microphone.

“You _see_ ,” Kevin continued, turning on heel and stepping casually over to the soundboard, running a hand over the switches and smearing blood all over the equipment as he went. “I was trapped in that desert for two years. Two _years_ , Cecil! Can you imagine? Just me and Vanessa. And Carlos, of course, for one of them! _Ohhhhh, Carlos_.” Kevin paused and closed his eyes, and a shudder ran down his entire body.

Cecil locked his jaw and fought down the urge to stand up and clock his double. The knife was still pointed in his direction.

Then Kevin exhaled and opened his eyes again, and he looked quite like he had forgotten where he was. Then he spun back around to face Cecil, gesturing wildly with the hand with the knife. “But _then_ , Carlos _left_ me!” Kevin’s voice jumped an octave in his outrage, and he jabbed the knife at Cecil, who flinched back into his chair.

“Carlos just up and _left_ one day, deciding that he would rather be with _you!_ _”_

Cecil swallowed and opened his mouth to say something harsh, then thought better of it and closed his mouth again.

“And _then_ ,” Kevin continued, throwing his hands up and giggling. “There I was, all alone—oh, but with Vanessa, of course—and I realized that there was simply no way that I could convince Carlos to be with me for as long as you were around!” Kevin beamed at Cecil, as though this was something Cecil should agree with wholeheartedly.

Cecil was only half-listening, though; something had suddenly occurred to him a few moments ago. “Wait, _you_ _’_ _re_ the one who’s been sending Carlos all those texts?”

Kevin giggled again, the hand with the knife going to his mouth. “So he _has_ been getting them! Oh, _goody!_ I was worried for a while there; he stopped replying.” Kevin’s face fell, as did the knife, but a moment later his false cheer had returned and the knife was back to pointing at Cecil’s chest. “But, _yes!_ I’m back at last, and I’m here to take your place! I’ll do the radio here, and be good friends with the mayor, and all the other things you do! I’ll be like a better version of _you!_ _”_

Kevin had inched closer as he spoke, and Cecil suddenly realized that he had foolishly allowed himself to be cornered in the farthest part of the room, and it was impossible to get past Kevin now.

“I—I don’t think—” Cecil stuttered, trying desperately to find something to distract his double. Kevin was even closer now, leaning forward over Cecil’s chair, and the knife was coming closer. The other radio host no longer seemed interested in talking.

Cecil racked his brains for some tactic he could use. He needed to get past Kevin, needed to make a break for the door…

His eyes shifted past Kevin to the door in panic, and suddenly an idea popped into his head.

Cecil abruptly forced himself more upright in his chair, widened his eyes and riveted them on the door, and shouted, “Carlos, no!”

Kevin blinked and quickly glanced behind him, and Cecil immediately jumped to his feet. He knocked into Kevin and shoved him roughly to the side as he dodged around him, running for the door.

“Hey!” Kevin squeaked as Cecil flashed past him. Cecil grabbed at the door and yanked it open, but had only taken a quick step out when Kevin’s hand closed over his wrist.

Cecil jerked forward, trying to break free, and only succeeded in dragging Kevin out into the hallway with him. He spun and, with all his strength, punched Kevin in the nose.

Kevin gave a sharp gasp and his hold on Cecil’s wrist loosened. Cecil jerked his arm free and spun to run again, but his foot contacted hard with something lying on the floor.

He hit the ground a moment later, and a quick glance over his shoulder showed he had tripped over the dead body of Intern Wanda. Her mouth was half-open in surprise, and her huge brown eyes were glassy and staring.

Cecil’s next breath came as a panicked gasp as he scrambled to pull himself away from Intern Wanda and to his feet. He only made it as far as his knees before Kevin knocked into him from behind. The weight of his double threw Cecil back to the floor, and his head struck the floor hard.

Kevin was on him in a heartbeat, twisting his fingers into Cecil’s hair and lifting his head up only long enough to drive it back against the floor. Repeatedly.

Cecil gasped and felt his vision dip and blur as his senses reeled. He tasted copper warm on his tongue. Before he knew what was going on, Kevin had heaved him up onto his feet and thrown him against a nearby wall.

Cecil’s vision was spinning like a roulette wheel and his head was on fire, but he kicked out at Kevin all the same, and felt a surge of triumph as his foot contacted.

Kevin growled something at him and a moment later had him by both shoulders and was throwing him back against the wall. Cecil felt the back of his skull ram into the wall once, then twice, until he was breathless and seeing stars.

“Please,” Cecil heard himself gasp, and then the pressure on his shoulders was gone. For a heartbeat he had a fleeting hope that he had been rescued, but then he blinked and his vision stopped swaying for a moment and Kevin was still there.

“I’ll be all too happy to be filling _all_ of your shoes here, Cecil,” Kevin whispered, and all he could see was Kevin’s face filling his vision, smiling that awful joyless smile. “Especially those concerning dear Carlos.”

Then Cecil’s stomach exploded in pain and everything went white.

Then he was awake again, and sitting slumped up against the hallway wall now, and Kevin was still leaning over him. He realized dimly that Kevin was now twisting the knife, and for some unforgivable reason he was still alive.

Kevin was talking to him, whispering and smiling as he tugged the knife this way and that, but all Cecil heard was his voice, loud and high and irritating.

Some part of him commented detachedly that Carlos had a much nicer voice, and then he remembered gasping again, followed by painless, blissful nothing.

But then he was awake again, lying on the floor this time, and his head was filled with static and his nerves were so over-charged with pain that he couldn’t breathe. He managed a hoarse, shallow gasp, and the hallway came into hazy view.

Kevin was gone.

Cecil gasped again, this time in relief, but it was short-lived. He forced his head down and gagged as he caught sight of his own abdomen.

His shirt—or maybe that was his stomach?—was in tatters, bloody ribbons and tangles of dark, gleaming coils everywhere. He was soaked from his thighs to his ribs in blood, and there was a dark smear of it soaking into the faded carpet. And the sheer, choking _smell_ of it—the thick, pungent stench of blood and death and fear—was everywhere, trapped in his lungs and glistening on his skin.

Cecil forced his head back up and felt a groan escape his lips. It was far fainter than he expected, and, for the first time, it hit him that he was dying.

This was it.

He was going to die here, in this out-dated hallway, on his and Carlos’ third anniversary, with Kevin gloating in the recording booth.

He knew his double was in there; he could distantly hear him, and as he peered bleakly down the hall, he saw that he’d left the door to the studio open.

Well, it wasn’t like Cecil was going to stop him.

A sudden row of chills ran up Cecil’s spine, and suddenly he was freezing and terrified. He was going to die _here_ , alone and petrified, and it was his and Carlos’ _anniversary_ , and Kevin was going to _win_ , and he was going to go after Carlos—

Cecil’s breath caught and he forced out a weak cough that was more like a wheeze.

Perfectly imperfect Carlos, who was going to have to find out from someone else that he had _died_ , and who was going to be relentlessly and possibly violently pursued by _Kevin_ , and _gods_ , he was never going to see Carlos again.

And suddenly everything was just so unfair. He and Carlos were supposed to be _happy_ , and _together_ , and instead he was going to die alone in this cold, pathetic hallway next to poor dead Intern Wanda, listening to Kevin’s hatefully cheery tones going on about how he was going to acquire Carlos like a piece of furniture. And the last thing he was going to see in his whole boring, useless, _amazing_ life was the emotionless unpainted door to Station Management’s office, when all he wanted to see was Carlos’ face, just one more time, just feel the touch of his hands—wait.

Station Management.

Suddenly Cecil’s head was full of buzzing, but it was a new type. Their office wasn’t far—it couldn’t be more than ten, fifteen feet. Station Management didn’t allow anyone to open their door. And there was no way they could condone the murder of their own radio host, especially by a rival, and _especially_ right under their noses.

If he was going to die anyway, Cecil reasoned grimly, there was no reason Kevin couldn’t die with him. That way Carlos would be safe. He would be alone, but he would be safe.

So Cecil gritted his teeth, pressed a hand against his ruined stomach, and tried to pull himself onto his hands and knees. The moment he moved, an electric pain arched through his entire body and he heard a whimper escape his lips as he fell back to the floor.

No way could he make it. It was too far. He couldn’t even move.

But he had to. He had to protect Carlos. The pain was closing fast around his brain, narrowing his thoughts, so he locked his eyes on the door to Station Management’s office and demanded that he reach it.

He bit back a scream as he forced himself back to his hands and knees, keeping one arm wrapped around his midsection. He started crawling wretchedly down the hallway, listing to one side as he used only one hand to support himself. Every movement was like fire, and soon his limbs were numb, and the only indication that he was moving was because the door kept bouncing in his vision. It slid left and right, and Cecil’s vision soon began fraying white around the edges, but he kept moving. The hand around his stomach was hot and wet, and he could feel the weight of his organs pressing against it.

The hand on the ground slipped, and his knees gave out, and his eyes overflowed with tears, but he forced himself ever closer.

He heard Kevin laugh, high and shrill, but he was still in the recording booth.

Cecil jerked his hand forward, then his knees. His legs were burning, and kept tingling. He was getting very cold, everything except the warm liquid dripping down the hand pressed to his stomach.

He wasn’t going to make it much longer.

The door swam in his vision.

No one had come to help him.

His hand slipped and he tried again.

Not Carlos. Not the secret police. Not anyone.

Cecil bit back a sob of pain as his shoulders started to shake uncontrollably.

And then he was there, and the door was looming above him. He reached up, but as soon as he lifted his hand, he collapsed to the floor.

He was shaking and gasping and just wanted to curl up and die.

But Carlos needed him.

Cecil threw his head back and forced a hand up towards the knob. He only made it a couple of inches and gasped with pain. He pulled his legs back towards him, and as he straightened up a little, his vision flared white for a moment. But he had gained a few inches.

His legs were still tingling ominously, and he could no longer feel anything in his abdomen. Cecil leaned his head against the unpainted wood and forced his hand up further towards the brass knob.

He couldn’t seem to stop crying. Everything just hurt so _much_.

Then his hand found the knob, smooth and warm under his pale, trembling fingers.

Cecil tilted his head up a bit, blinking blearily. This was it, then. Just one quick turn and pull, and he could at last give in to the darkness eating at his vision.

He just wanted to see Carlos one more time. He wanted it so much it hurt, another ache in his chest, this one somehow stronger than the others, and deeper. He wanted to tell Carlos he loved him one last time.

“I’m sorry, Carlos,” he whispered instead.

And then he turned the knob and jerked his hand back, and let himself fall backwards with it, away from the opening door and into the blessed warm darkness that had waited so long to claim him.


	3. Chapter Three

When he was fifteen, Cecil Gershwin Palmer died.

It was an unfortunate incident that wasn’t supposed to happen that way.

Cecil had been a young and inquisitive boy, who loved his town and whose town loved him, and something about that had appealed to the creature hovering just behind the glass in the mirror.

The creature in the mirror had no friends or family, had only ever had itself. It saw only glimpses of the outside world, glimpsed them, if you will, through a mirror dimly, and yearned for more.

And then Cecil came along. Cecil, who journeyed all over town and always had interesting things to say, and who was young and curious just like the thing within the mirror.

So the creature in the mirror started reaching out—at first just as flickers and bits of broken static on a cassette player—until it decided it was ready to take the final step.

It leapt from the mirror into its new host—not to control, or to dominate, but simply to watch and learn. It just wanted to experience the life it had watched the mortals living outside the glass.

The creature in the mirror was immortal, and had decided to give up its immortality to become part of the mortal boy named Cecil Palmer.

But that was not how it turned out.

Instead, in the transition, Cecil died.

And then he woke up.

And the creature from the mirror was shocked, because, instead of giving up its own immortality to join Cecil for a mortal life, it had worked the other way around.

But the creature from the mirror knew that knowledge of his own death might have adverse effects on the young boy it had inadvertently cursed to an immortal life, and so it wiped Cecil’s mind clean of the entire incident.

And Cecil grew up, and moved forward, and, for the creature from the mirror, it was the most beautiful thing it had ever experienced. For an entity that had spent a great span of eternity staring at a blank hallway wall, Cecil’s life was an impossible rainbow. The man was always bouncing from place to place, breaking in his new voice as he matured into a young man and moved up in the pecking order at the radio station.

And the creature from the mirror was content to remain tucked away in Cecil’s subconscious, doing nothing to interfere but simply letting Cecil live his own life independently. The way the creature from the mirror saw it, it owed Cecil a debt of gratitude for allowing him in, albeit it unknowingly.

The years ticked by and Cecil perished several more times—Librarians once, demon child swarm once, Valentine’s Day twice—and on and on. And every time the creature from the mirror watched Cecil revive, and then wiped his memory, sometimes even adding fake memories to convince the radio host that he was simply incredibly good at avoiding the perils of life in Night Vale that everyone else fell prey to on an extremely regular basis.

The lucky thing was that no one who had ever witnessed Cecil’s deaths had lived to talk about it.

Until six years ago. While out to eat with his sister, brother-in-law, and niece, an unexpected wave of street cleaners had swept through the city. Cecil and Steve convinced Abby and Janice to stay inside the restaurant while they guarded the door.

And then the street cleaners descended. Both Cecil and Steve were decent fighters, and they managed to keep the monsters at bay with soup ladles and barbed two-handed swords from the kitchen. But then Steve slipped. It was just a small thing—a bit of spilled soup on the floor—but it was enough to put him at the mercy of the street cleaners.

And Cecil, with that brave, innocent streak that had so attracted the creature from the mirror in the first place, threw himself in front of his brother-in-law.

The street cleaner made short work of the radio host, but it was long enough for Steve to regain his footing and retreat.

And Steve could only watch, horrified, as Cecil toppled to the cracked linoleum, spasmed twice, and grew still.

Filled with anger on behalf of his brother-in-law, Steve heroically fought off the remaining street cleaners and rushed to Cecil’s side to find the other man stirring, dazed.

And the creature from the mirror paused. It was used to wiping Cecil’s memory, but it could not reach Steve to wipe his, and neither would it compel Cecil to kill the witness. But it worried that, if Cecil found out that it was hiding in his subconscious, Cecil would seek to destroy or expel it, and it loved being Cecil far too much.

So it wiped Cecil’s memory yet again, altering it so that he had never even stepped in front of the street cleaner.

Steve, of course, insisted that Cecil had saved him, died, and then revived right in front of him, an absurd story that Cecil waved away as a bizarre conspiracy theory. Steve kept at it, though, and over time Cecil’s esteem of him dropped for insisting on spreading such fantastic fabrications.

The creature from the mirror grieved to have driven such a wedge between the two men, who had been quite good friends, but decided it was a necessary loss. It was not yet ready to give Cecil up.

And things carried on as usual for a time.

And then Carlos arrived in Night Vale, and Cecil fell in love instantly.

The creature from the mirror was astounded by the sheer depth of emotion directed in the scientist’s direction, a depth that only increased with time.

The creature had inhabited Cecil for years, decades, even, and though Cecil had had relations with other men, nothing anywhere near this caliber had ever happened before. The creature from the mirror had thought that it had experienced all of the emotions it was possible for a human being to experience, but it was wrong.

And when it was believed that Carlos had died at the bowling alley, the depth of grief—horror and fear and sorrow and an ache it was not possible to replicate with any blade—was so crushing that the creature from the mirror resolved that it would leave Cecil the next time he died, so the radio host would not revive and would be spared from his suffering.

But then Carlos lived, and called for personal reasons, and soon Cecil was falling in love with Carlos all over again, a second wave of emotion that reached even deeper than the first, because now it was reciprocated, and that was the most beautiful thing in the world.

And this love for Carlos was so entirely all-encompassing that soon the creature from the mirror began to love him too. Carlos was sweet, and funny, and so incredibly kind, and it was inconceivable to the creature from the mirror that anyone could not love him.

And Cecil continued to perish on a regular basis: station management got him soon after Carlos’ arrival, not-John Peters and his orange juice killed him in his studio, and re-education went too far and killed him briefly in the bowels of City Hall.

And then he’d gone on the subway, and had died over a thousand times in what Night Vale perceived as three minutes. The creature from the mirror was forced to wipe Cecil’s memory almost completely of the incident, because the eons he’d spent trapped, living and dying and reviving and being tormented by phantom Carloses had driven Cecil insane over and over again.

And then StrexCorp had invaded, and Night Vale had fought them off, and then Carlos was gone.

And then Cecil stopped going out so much, and then he stopped laughing at bad jokes, and then he stopped smiling, except sadly at interns and old friends, and then he stopped leaving his house altogether.

It was the stopping of things that bothered the creature from the mirror more than anything. Cecil had spent his entire life _doing_ things; he was scarcely himself when he wasn’t bouncing around the town, learning everyone’s life story back to front. Cecil belonged with people, and he was isolating himself.

The creature from the mirror tried to comfort him, sometimes wiping Cecil’s memory of particularly painful nights alone, convincing him instead that he had had too much to drink and passed out. It was more peaceful than the alternative. And though this tactic worked for short periods of time, it was obvious that Cecil was slipping away. He was nothing without Carlos, and there was nothing the creature from the mirror could do to help, save erasing all memory of Carlos altogether.

But the creature from the mirror did not, for several reasons.

Firstly, because it was none of his business. He wasn’t here to protect Cecil from himself or his choices, especially not without his consent. Just because he was using Cecil as a host didn’t mean he was a parasite.

Secondly, it would be impossible to pull it off, because everyone else in Night Vale still remembered Carlos, and Carlos himself kept calling. He would just end up driving Cecil mad.

And thirdly, sometimes Cecil just sat around and remembered Carlos. And then the creature from the mirror would remember how deep Cecil’s feelings ran, and how amazing it had been to even just feel emotion after living in a plane of reflections. And even these current emotions were astounding in their depth, though they were painful to house. But if there was even a shadow of a chance that Carlos would return, and the creature would be again able to feel those beautiful loving emotions secondhand from Cecil’s blossoming heart, then it would wait it out.

And then Cecil decided that, if Carlos wouldn’t come back to him, he would go to Carlos. The creature from the mirror grieved for Cecil’s breaking heart and the imminent loss of its home, but rejoiced at the thought of being able to be with Carlos again, after so long.

And then Cecil went to the opera.

Hiram McDaniels flew out over the audience, shrieking and spewing fire, the purple head biting viciously at the necks of the others. Cecil could only watch, finding himself handcuffed to his chair. This didn’t prove to be problematic at first, but then the entire opera house went up in flames.

The audience quickly rushed for the exits and everyone made it out safely—no, _almost_ everyone. Cecil remained in the theater, trapped, still cuffed to his chair. He tried so hard to escape—strained against the chair and his arm, even tried breaking his thumb, but it was no use.

Even Hiram and the Mayor had left by now, and he was all alone. His cries were lost in the roar of the flames as they licked closer.

Heat rolled over him in waves, and Cecil had begun to weep, because he was trapped and about to die and it was mere hours before he was to leave Night Vale forever to be with Carlos.

It always surprised the creature from the mirror what went through Cecil’s head as he realized he was dying. Sometimes he never got past shock before he died, but other times—terrible times—it had been drawn out.

Whenever Cecil had time to think, his thoughts usually turned to possible ways to survive, and then to fear. It always hurt to die, and the creature from the mirror particularly disliked it. It was a great surge of emotion, but always negative ones—fear at the thought of death, anger at whatever had killed him, guilt at things left undone, and just physical pain as his life wound down.

It was a mercy to wipe his memory.

But then, once he had met Carlos, Cecil’s last thoughts changed. It was no longer _Oh, gods, no, please, I want to live!_ but now _Oh, gods, no, I wish I could have told Carlos I loved him one last time!_

And in every time Cecil had died in the last four years—every _single_ time—Cecil had never thought of himself in his very last breaths, but instead of Carlos, and how much he loved him.

Watching how he thought of Carlos over the years as he died was particularly interesting to the creature from the mirror, the only one who’d ever know:

At first, it had been _I wish I could have at least gotten to hold his hand._

And then _I wish he and I could have had something._

Then _I_ _’_ _m so glad we at least had that little time together._

 _I wonder what he'll_ _think when he finds out._

 _Gods, I hope he'll_ _be okay. I love him so much._

 _I'm_ _just so grateful we had that beautiful year together._

 _I hope he doesn't miss me too much, when I'm_ _gone._

 _I hope he'll_ _be happy in that otherworld._

 _I'm_ _so sorry. I almost made it._

 _Don'_ _t die, don't die, Cecil. Carlos needs you._

 _I can't leave him like this. I can't_ _do this to him._

_I just wish I wasn't alone._

_I wish he were here._

And though Cecil never remembered his deaths, the creature from the mirror knew that he somehow felt an afterimage of the emotions, because, the next time he saw Carlos after each of his deaths, the radio host was significantly more affectionate.

After one particularly drawn-out death, Cecil had enveloped Carlos in such a tight hug upon seeing him again, without knowing why, that Carlos had become seriously concerned.

And so the last four years had progressed, until Kevin stepped foot in the Night Vale Community Radio station.


	4. Chapter Four

Carlos had never been more terrified in his entire life.

He had been busy pulling the stray power generator back towards his car by a new leash, the generator straining to get away with every step, when Cecil’s voice streaming from the portable radio the scientist always kept clipped to his belt when he was working abruptly stopped.

Carlos had halted instantly and switched his attention completely to what Cecil was saying; he’d been reporting on open gates at the dog park a moment ago.

And then Cecil had explained, much too quickly and in a voice more like his regular one than his radio voice, that Kevin had entered his studio.

It was then that Carlos dropped the leash and started running flat-out in the direction of his car.

Soon the blood was pumping in his ears and his breaths were sharp and stinging, but he ran as fast and as far as he could, pushing himself to to his limit and still staggering on after even that, because Cecil was in trouble and Carlos needed to get to him.

He turned the volume up on the radio at his belt as he ran, listening painfully as Cecil’s voice suddenly changed in pitch and he could pick up every sharp, controlled breath. He must be holding the microphone very close.

And in the background, he could just hear Kevin—cheery and malevolent as always—and Carlos inwardly cursed every time he’d ever casually said hello to the man in the desert otherworld.

Yes, he and Kevin had been friends for a while, while he’d been trapped, but Carlos had never considered them anything more than that. At first it had just been his looks—apart from the eyes, of course, he was in every way Cecil’s mirror image. And just being able to see Cecil on a semi-regular basis—even if it hadn’t really _been_ Cecil—had proved to be such an immense comfort for Carlos, that he hadn’t been too bothered in those early months of separation. And between seeing Kevin and being able to talk with the real Cecil on the phone, it was almost like being with him.

But then when Cecil had visited on vacation, Carlos had remembered all the things he’d forgotten, all the little quirks and gestures that he’d fallen in love with. He’d forgotten the way Cecil smiled shyly and glanced at the ground whenever Carlos complimented him, and the way he hummed when he cooked, and how he’d chatter on endlessly about all of Night Vale’s eccentricities if you let him. It wasn’t enough to just see and hear Cecil; Carlos loved to wrap himself in the other man’s arms and exchange good morning kisses, and simply watch the way he moved. Kevin might have shared his body, but his motions and gestures were his own, and of course simply being in the same room as Cecil had a profound effect on Carlos.

It had changed over the years—not lessened, just changed. At first, his heart had raced and his tongue had tied itself in knots. And then he had blushed and avoided Cecil’s eye. And then he had felt deep affection for the radio host, and then love, and finally a sort of peace that was what love turned into when you’d been so incredibly happy for so incredibly long. Just a sort of peace that made him always want to be near the radio host, and simply bask in the knowledge that he loved Cecil and Cecil loved him, and he never wanted that to change.

But now it seemed that Carlos’ error, his error in staying the desert otherworld for so long, was coming back to haunt them at last.

Cecil interrupted Kevin’s cheerfully malicious monologuing to mention Carlos’ texts, and Carlos almost tripped as the words left Cecil’s mouth. And of course it all made sense—Kevin had, Carlos thought, perhaps had a strange crush on him for a while, especially in the last couple of months in the desert. And of course those had been the weeks that Carlos had been the most distracted, between worrying about Cecil and trying to wrap up some of his science, and he might not have been as thorough dissuading Kevin of his affections as he might have been.

Soon Carlos was breathless with exhaustion but he kept pushing himself, his car only yards away now, parked just beyond the ring of seismology equipment he’d set up earlier.

He heard Cecil’s voice on the radio twitch up just a hair in pitch and then catch, and Carlos knew—knew instinctively, just from the subtle changes in Cecil’s voice—that the radio host was terrified and trying very hard not to show it.

Carlos finally reached his car and threw himself in, just as Cecil’s voice shouted, “Carlos, no!” Carlos froze and stared down at the radio and then up at the car, half expecting to see a ticking bomb strapped to the steering wheel. But everything looked normal, and there was a sudden loud sequence of thumps and knocks from the radio. Kevin yelped and there was the sound of a door being yanked open, and then more distant thumps and a muffled cry that sounded like Cecil.

Carlos’ heart leapt into his throat as he jammed the keys into the ignition, threw the car into drive, and spun it around in a tight hairpin turn so he was facing back towards Night Vale.

He slammed on the gas.

For a couple of long, tense moments there were only distant thuds from the radio, and then the distant sounds of a struggle—yelps and muffled shouts and more thumps, short and brutal-sounding.

Carlos’ hands tightened around the steering wheel like a vice, his foot pressed all the way to the floor. In the struggle on the radio, he couldn’t tell who was winning.

Then there was a long silence. It stretched out longer and longer, and Carlos could only stare at Night Vale as he sped towards it, and pray that Cecil would be okay.

Then there was the sound of footsteps, and the rustle of clothing as someone sat down, and a creak as he leaned towards the microphone.

There was an intake of breath and Carlos stared at the radio, praying to hear Cecil’s deep, melodious voice.

“Ah, hel _lo_ , listeners,” said a voice from the radio, and the voice was not Cecil’s.

Carlos abruptly lost all the air in his lungs and fixed his gaze back on Night Vale, trying to force his car faster by sheer force of will. He bit back a sudden pinpricking of tears in his eyes. Cecil would be okay. He must have run from the radio station. Yes, that was it. He had escaped.

“My name is Kevin,” Kevin continued from the radio, in that hateful voice that was so full of cheer and false innocence, “and I will be your new host from now on. Cecil is, ah, _indisposed_ at the moment—” here Kevin’s voice switched to a lower, more delicate tone— “and I’m afraid that you won’t ever be hearing from him again.”

Carlos felt his heart stop and then resume beating with frightening intensity. Cecil couldn’t be dead, he couldn’t be dead, he just couldn’t, Kevin must be lying, he did it all the time—

“But I’m just pleased as punch to be your new host, here at Night Vale Community Radio! I’m sure we’ll all become _very_ good friends.” Kevin’s voice twisted up in tone, and Carlos could practically see the sickly sweet smile on his face.

“Especially me and a certain….let’s say, _celebrated_ scientist.”

Carlos set his mouth, his fingers digging into the steering wheel so much it hurt. Kevin had—had—had done this to Cecil so he could get _him?_

“You bastard,” Carlos growled, glaring at the radio with a hatred more intense than anything he had ever felt before. He wanted to strangle Kevin with his bare hands, wanted to smash his skull in with a crowbar, needed to do something uncompromisingly violent to the simpering voice on the radio that had laid a finger on Cecil.

Night Vale was growing larger on the horizon, and soon he was flashing past the outlying buildings, making a straight beeline for the radio station.

“ _Oh,_ and listeners, I’m sure we’ll all have a wonderful time getting to know each other! It might take a couple of weeks, sure, but I’m confident that, in the end, it’ll be like I was here _all along._ ”

A distant gargled rumbling echoed in the background of the broadcast, but Kevin didn’t notice.

“I’m sure my experience at Desert Bluffs will be _very_ useful in helping getting this radio studio up to scratch, as well! A bit of blood here, some more pictures of teeth there—” Kevin broke off as the rumbling grew louder, and now there was a static-y humming and the sound like something gnashing its teeth, and Carlos’ blood ran cold as he recognized the sound.

He had first heard it a little under four years ago, on one of the very first of Cecil’s shows he’d caught. Cecil’s voice had trembled as he narrated what was happening, and afterwards he had refused to acknowledge that the incident had even happened.

But if Station Management were free from their office, then Cecil must be—must be—it must be revenge.

Carlos swallowed thickly as the gnashing grew louder.

“Oh, dear,” said Kevin, very quietly. “Ah, listeners, there’s something—ah, how about, how about we go to the Weather? Yes. Ah… _Oh,_ Smiling—!” Kevin’s voice jumped into a terrified shriek, and then abruptly cut over to the Weather.

Carlos diverted his attention back to the road and swore loudly as he veered wildly around the other vehicles suddenly appearing in his way. He swerved around an ultraviolet-painted minivan and ran a stop sign, blatantly ignoring the man with the semaphore flag trying to wave him down.

The Weather went on and on, switching between a jaunty drum roll and someone singing slightly off-key about graham crackers and goldfish.

Carlos swerved around another car and had to hit the brakes hard to avoid colliding with a truck full of invisible corn.

He was still five minutes from the radio station. And suddenly he was overflowing with tears, because he wasn’t going to make it and Cecil was probably dead already, and Carlos hadn’t been there.

He bit back a sob and slammed his foot on the gas again as the truck finished going by. Dead or not, Station Management or no Station Management, he was damned if he wasn’t going to at least try.

And then suddenly the Weather was over, and Carlos’ attention was immediately arrested by the radio. It was silent.

Carlos veered onto the sidewalk to get around a stalled car and incoming traffic, and there was a quiet noise from the radio.

Carlos reached over and turned it up, and there was that noise again—just a quiet little wheeze, or maybe a gasp. Then silence. Then another, this one more of a whimper, and then silence. A rustle of cloth, and the sound of something dragging.

Carlos stared at the radio.

A sudden loud thump echoed in the car, and Carlos turned the volume back down to the regular amount as a long, rattling breath came from very near the microphone. The breath cut off abruptly, and there was a painful-sounding wheeze.

“Listen—ers,” whispered a voice that was hoarse and broken but very clearly Cecil’s.

Carlos gasped and breathed in so hugely his head spun. He was having trouble focusing on the road. Cecil was—Cecil was— _he was still alive._

“I think…Kevin…got a—ab—absorbed into Station M—Manage—ment.” Cecil’s voice kept hitching, and abruptly Carlos realized that Cecil, though still alive, must be seriously hurt. He wasn’t even trying to get into his radio voice, and what scared him most was the lack of professionalism. Cecil was always professional on the radio. Always.

“I—I’m—I don’t think—” Cecil’s voice caught and he coughed, and the sound was so weak that Carlos immediately froze up in fear.

He was very close to the station now—just a minute or two more.

“Hold on, Cecil,” Carlos whispered. “I’m coming.”

Cecil was silent for a long time, and Carlos could just hear his labored breathing.

“Carlos?” Cecil whispered shakily, his voice impossibly pained. And suddenly Carlos realized that Cecil was crying, and wanted so desperately to be there right now, wanted to just wrap Cecil up in his arms and hold him tight. “I—I love you. Just so—so much.” And then Cecil broke down into tears entirely, but his breath kept hitching unnaturally.

Carlos cut a corner sharp and then he could see the radio station in front of him, the parking lot filled with several vehicles he recognized as belonging to the secret police. Officers were milling around outside, but none were approaching the building.

“Goodnight,” Cecil rasped from the radio. “Night Vale— _oh,_ Night Vale.” Cecil’s voice caught and he gasped a little. “Goodnight.”

And then there was a small little tap and all the sound cut out.

Carlos hit the gas and covered the last stretch of road to the radio station parking lot, veering in and slamming on the brakes as soon as he was within twenty feet of the door. He stared through the windshield at the unassuming brick building as though he could see through the walls to his beloved.

Carlos threw the car in park and jumped out, not even bothering to turn it off, and made a direct beeline for the door.

“Hey, hey!” shouted one of the secret policemen, hurrying to stand in his way. Several other officers hurried over as well.

“Why aren’t you in there already?” Carlos shouted at the nearest one, jabbing his hand at the radio station. He hadn’t meant to shout.

“Strict city law; Station Management left their offices, and no one’s allowed inside for another twenty minutes.”

“Well, screw them!” Carlos shouted, shouldering past the officers. One tried to grab his arm, and Carlos spun around and raised his hand to throw a punch. If he had to fight his way hand and foot to get to Cecil, then he would.

Upon seeing Carlos’ expression, the officer quickly unhanded him, and the rest of them stepped back to let him pass.

Carlos fast-walked to the station door and quickly pulled it open. He rounded the first corner and froze. The hot, thick stench hit him like a wall. Lying on the ground in front of him was a young woman—probably the unfortunate intern Cecil had mentioned—and she was surrounded by blood. There was a damp circle beneath her, but it didn’t remain confined to that. There were splotches all over the worn, faded gray carpet, and a long smear against a wall to the left that stretched down to a second huge damp patch on the floor. Except there was no body for this puddle, only a long trail of blood reaching down the hallway.

Carlos felt bile rise in his throat and choked it down as he followed the trail with his eyes. It led up the hallway to the door to Station Management’s office and back again, and the trail back was thicker and fresher, and led directly to the recording studio.

“Oh my God,” Carlos whispered, a hand going to his mouth to keep himself from vomiting as he realized with a terrified shudder whose blood that must be.

He staggered towards the recording studio, stepping over the intern’s body and using a wall for support.

“Cecil?” he called, his own voice catching and sounding an octave higher in fear. _“_ _Cecil?_ _”_

And then he reached the door to the studio and stepped inside, terrified at what he might see.

And there, curled up on his side, clutching the microphone with one hand and his abdomen with the other, at the end of the long smear of blood, was Cecil.

“Oh, God.” Carlos forced himself to cross the room, his eyes riveted on Cecil.

Cecil was paler than anyone he’d ever seen before, and even from this far he could hear the shallow, broken wheezes as the radio host struggled to breathe. His eyes were closed and his face streaked with tears, his fingers clutching convulsively at the microphone. His legs were arranged awkwardly towards the door, like Cecil had simply dragged them with him into the room.

At Carlos’ voice, Cecil’s eyes twitched open, struggling to focus on him. “Carlos?” he whispered, and his voice was impossibly small but filled with such hope Carlos felt his heart break.

Carlos dropped to his knees beside the radio host and reached out a hand to stroke his cheek. “Yeah, it’s me,” he finally managed. Cecil was ice cold to the touch, and the radio host closed his eyes and let out a wheezy exhale at the contact.

“Carlos,” whispered Cecil again as he opened his eyes, staring up at Carlos with such relief and love Carlos felt tears begin to slip down his own cheeks.

“I came as fast as I could,” Carlos whispered. “I tried—I’m sorry—I should have been here earlier—”

Cecil moved his hand from the microphone to the sleeve of Carlos’ lab coat, the closest part of him in easy reach. “Here now,” he croaked, a smile twitching painfully at his lips.

Carlos gave him a strained smile through his own tears as his gaze slipped to Cecil’s wound, merely confirming what he already knew. Cecil’s abdomen was a mess of blood and organs, and with all the blood he had clearly already lost, there was no way he was going to make it. This was it.

“Happy to…see you,” Cecil managed. “Didn’t want…to be alone.”

Carlos felt his heart breaking as he moved his hand to Cecil’s neck, stroking Cecil’s hair with the other. “I’m here.”

Cecil gave him another smile, and then shuddered, fear suddenly flashing across his face. “I love you,” he said quickly, meeting Carlos’ gaze with eyes that were suddenly filled with fresh pain and tears.

“ _God,_ Cecil, I love you too,” Carlos croaked, his own tears streaking down his cheeks.

“Cold,” Cecil whispered, his voice breaking. “Hold…me?”

Carlos felt his throat close and could only nod as he leaned forward and pulled Cecil up and close, until Cecil’s head slumped against his shoulder. The radio host kept one hand on his stomach and used the other to cling to one of Carlos’ lapels with such a weak grip that Carlos could have easily brushed him away.

As he shifted, Cecil let out a whimper, quiet and helpless, but when Carlos looked down at him, he didn’t look self-conscious like he did usually when he made involuntary, embarrassing noises. Instead he simply looked to be in pain as he relaxed against Carlos’ chest. He was freezing but not shaking, not even a little, which Carlos took to be a bad sign.

He felt Cecil exhale against his chest and then inhale brokenly, struggling to get even half of a breath before he had to exhale again.

Carlos wanted to implore Cecil to hold on, to not die, but he knew it was futile. He was simply too far gone. The only thing left to do was hold him.

And Carlos’ hand, more out of force of habit than anything, automatically moved to his lab coat pocket to check that the ring was still there—and suddenly he realized that he didn’t want Cecil to die without knowing exactly what he meant to Carlos.

“Hold on a second, Cecil,” Carlos said thickly, sniffling and pushing Cecil away from him just a hair as his hand fished out the box.

Cecil whimpered again, this time in protest as Carlos pushed him away from his warmth and support. Carlos kept a tight grip on him with his left hand as he pulled the box out of his pocket with his right.

He was already kneeling. “Cecil Gershwin Palmer,” Carlos said through the tears clogging his voice. “Oh, _God_ , Cecil.” Carlos held the tiny box up to him and popped it open with his thumb, and could barely get the next words out. He was crying so hard that his voice was shaking, but somehow he felt himself smiling through it. “Will you marry me?”

Cecil inhaled so sharply Carlos thought it must have hurt immensely, but there was a look of such unrestrained joy on his face as his eyes jumped from the ring to Carlos’ face that it made the scientist’s heart stop beating for a second.

Cecil opened his mouth to respond, but could only wheeze for a few moments. “Yes,” he finally managed, and the smile on his face was the largest Carlos had ever seen it. “Yes, yes, yes!” And Cecil managed to find the strength to lean forward and throw his arms around Carlos.

“Yes,” he whispered into Carlos’ ear, his breath tickling.

Then Cecil didn’t inhale.

Carlos held his breath just to be sure, but there was no more tickling on his ear or flutter of air against his hair. The arms around his neck were slack.

Carlos put his hands on Cecil's shoulders and pushed him away, moving a hand up to the radio host's neck as his head lolled down limply. He managed to tilt Cecil's head back enough to get a good glimpse of his face, and felt his throat close up. Cecil's beautiful eyes were closed serenely, and there was a ghost of a smile still on his lips. Carlos checked for a pulse even though he didn't expect to find one, and had a hard time breathing as the weight of what was happening fell around him.

He pulled Cecil closer and wrapped his arms around him more tightly, and buried his face in the crook between Cecil's neck and shoulder, and wept.

And the creature from the mirror that lived curled up in Cecil's subconscious watched it all happen, and something stirred within it.

Every single time Cecil had died, the radio host had felt something deeply. Regret, fear, anger, horror, sadness; but never before had he felt love.

And the joy Cecil had felt in those four short seconds before life fled him had been the most intense and deep emotion the creature from the mirror had ever felt. Cecil had just been so unimaginably, incomparably happy even when he had only seconds left and known it; and it was the most beautiful and bittersweet thing it had ever felt.

And it knew that soon Cecil would awaken, and Carlos would be there, and that would be a problem. It could erase Cecil's memory, as it had every other time, but then Carlos would figure it out, or Cecil would respond in the same way he had with Steve. Or it could let Cecil remember, but expose its own existence in the process.

And in the end it loved Carlos too much, and loved how Carlos and Cecil loved each other, to take away that singular moment of joy that was the happiest Cecil had ever felt in his entire life.

 

~~~***~~~

 

Carlos was still crying, hard, ugly sobs that clogged his nostrils and burned his eyes and made his lungs sear. He was still clutching Cecil's body to himself, unable to even contemplate letting him go. Cecil was _dead_ , and all he'd wanted was to be _held_ , and there was no way he was ever letting Cecil leave his arms again.

And Cecil had said _yes_ , and he had just been so _happy_ , and Carlos had been with him for three years to the day, when he had wanted a lifetime.

Cecil was still limp against him, though his skin was no longer ice cold to the touch.

Carlos choked on his own tears and had to gasp and wheeze until he had cleared his throat enough to continue crying, rocking back and forth as his fingers tightened and loosened convulsively on the back of Cecil's shirt.

This was supposed to be the happiest day of his life, except maybe the wedding day itself, and the happiest of Cecil's, too, but instead it had turned out to be the worst day of his life and the last of Cecil's.

Carlos sobbed harder and gripped Cecil more tightly, and missed the sharp, quiet breath his fiancé took against his shoulder.

He did not, however, miss the sudden twitch of Cecil's hand as it tightened around his collar, or the slight movement of the radio host's shoulders as he hitched himself up to a slightly more comfortable position against Carlos' shoulder.

"It's such a beautiful ring," Cecil whispered hoarsely into his shoulder. "I'm so sorry I'll never be able to wear it."

Carlos lost his breath as he pulled away from Cecil so suddenly the other man burst into tears.

_"Cecil?"_

"I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry," Cecil sobbed, tightening his grip on Carlos' collar and trying to pull him closer.

Carlos was staring down at Cecil's abdomen, and was still having trouble breathing. "Oh my God, _Cecil."_

Cecil sniffed and gave up trying to pull Carlos closer. "What?" he hiccuped, sounding miserable.

"Cecil, _your wound."_

Cecil sniffed again, looked down at himself, and froze. "What the Glow Cloud?" Cecil hesitantly lowered the hand from Carlos' collar to his own abdomen, pushing back the bloodied, shredded bits of shirt to run his hand over the smooth, unmarked skin.

Carlos moved his own hand there as well, hesitating before letting his fingers touch. "Cecil, you—you—"

"It doesn't hurt anymore," Cecil said suddenly, and glanced sharply at his legs, still stretched out awkwardly to the side. He twitched his foot and brought his leg a little closer, bending it at the knee. He laughed, high and nervous and unbelieving. "Carlos, I can move my legs again!"

Carlos' vision was blurring around the edges, and he still couldn't breathe. Cecil was _alive_. Cecil was _talking to him_. Carlos must have died too. It was the only scientifically sound explanation.

And then Cecil was looking over at him, and his amazed expression quickly changed to one of worry. The gray haze closed around Cecil's face as Carlos distantly felt himself tipping forward.

A moment later he registered dimly was that someone was keeping him upright by holding onto his shoulders very tightly, and there was a warm mouth pressed against his own, sucking all the air from his lungs. He tried to pull back and free himself, but then the mouth exhaled into his, filling his lungs completely before pulling back. Carlos opened his eyes to see Cecil, head bowed as he gulped in breaths.

Carlos did the same for a few seconds and then leaned forward and tilted Cecil's head back and kissed him again, properly this time.

And Cecil was real, and warm, and alive, and very much kissing him back, and if this was a dream, Carlos didn't ever want to wake up.

Finally something occurred to him, and the scientist forced himself to pull back, though he kept their foreheads touching, letting their breaths mingle.

And just to make sure he hadn't imagined everything that had happened, Carlos said, all in a rush, "Cecil-will-you-marry-me?"

And though he couldn't see Cecil's mouth, he watched the radio host's cheeks lift and eyes shine as he smiled and said, breathlessly, "Yes." And then, after a moment: "That would be neat!"

Carlos laughed and so did Cecil, and then they were hugging and Carlos was kissing every part of Cecil he could reach, and Cecil was crying and tangling his fingers in Carlos' hair.

Then one of Carlos' hands strayed to the floor and bumped into the tiny box where he must have accidentally dropped it earlier.

He brought it over to Cecil and pulled the ring out carefully.

Cecil untangled his left hand from Carlos' hair and held it out. He was breathing rapidly, and beamed in delight as Carlos carefully slipped it on his ring finger. And Carlos realized he was smiling like an idiot too as Cecil leaned back over to kiss him again, more tenderly this time.

"But...how?" Carlos finally asked, dropping his hand to Cecil's waist and running his fingers over the unmarked skin in wonder.

Cecil looked down, and the smile on his face fell a few inches. "I don't know," he admitted. "As far as I know, there're no special regulations for today outlawing death, or anything like that..."

"But it's not just that," Carlos said, and felt the corners of his eyes prick with the memory. "You _died,_ Cecil. Flat out _died_. Not just magically healed. You…stopped breathing. You had no pulse. You...you were _dead,_ Cecil."

Cecil looked up at him in surprise, and must have seen something there that worried him, because he pulled the scientist into another hug.

"I don't remember that," Cecil admitted. "But I believe you. I just remember talking to you, and then blacking out—I thought for just a second or two—and then I just...didn't hurt anymore. I thought I had gone completely numb...but I'm better! No wound at all; I've never seen anything like it."

Carlos sniffed and pulled back from the hug, running his hand up and down Cecil's side again, still disbelieving. But Cecil was alive, and that simple fact mattered infinitely more to him than how it had happened.

"Well, I say, don't look a gift horse in the mouth."

Cecil gave him a puzzled expression. “But horses—"

"I'm just glad you're still alive," Carlos clarified, studiously ignoring the upward twitch of Cecil’s lips at his words. "And that's all I care about."

Cecil nodded, and then suddenly seemed distracted.

"What is it?"

"Well...something just occurred to me."

"What?"

Cecil shifted uncomfortably, and Carlos wrapped his arms further around the radio host’s waist. "Well," he began uncertainly. "Years ago now, Steve and Abbie and Janice and I were out having dinner—”

"Wait, Steve _Carlsberg?"_

"Yeah."

"You went out to dinner with _Steve Carlsberg?"_

"It was soon after he'd married Abbie," Cecil said, waving him off. "He and I were actually on pretty good terms back then. But we were having dinner when there was an unannounced street cleaning session, and Steve and I fought them off."

"Oh my God," Carlos said, shocked. Street cleaners were vicious creatures, and he knew Cecil had a particular aversion to them that went beyond the healthy fear of municipal employees.

"And we were fighting them, but then suddenly they were all gone, and Steve was staring at me like I'd grown a third head, and he kept saying I'd...well, he kept saying I'd stepped in front of a street cleaner when he'd slipped and that I'd been killed, and then suddenly I'd healed...but that was ridiculous, right? And I never believed him. He kept at it, though, and that was the first time I thought he had a...a stupid conspiracy theory."

Carlos stared at Cecil, who was looking back at him with a worried expression. "And then when we got back I remember thinking we hadn't been gone for nearly as long as the clocks said, and Abbie remembered hearing a scream...but I don't remember a scream...and Carlos, what if this wasn't the first time? What if I've died before, and just...don't remember?"

Carlos felt his arms wrap around Cecil's more tightly, suddenly terrified at the notion of Cecil dying, over and over again.

"I know it doesn't make sense," Cecil said quickly, "but, I mean, this hardly makes sense either, and it really would fit with what Steve said, all those years ago..."

"We'll figure it out," Carlos promised, deeply unsettled. He couldn’t seem to break his thoughts away from a version of events where Cecil had died before Carlos even got to Night Vale.

"I mean, what if there's something wrong with me; maybe I can't die, or maybe I haven't earned it—you know death's a meritocracy nowadays—”

"We'll figure it out," Carlos repeated. "And there's nothing wrong with you, not one gorgeous inch. Got it?"

Cecil smiled and glanced down bashfully, though the tiny line between his eyebrows meant he was still concerned.

"I'm just afraid the other shoe's gonna drop," Cecil admitted quietly. "And I don't want to be unprepared if this is going to come with a price later."

Carlos pulled Cecil into another hug and ran his hand up and down the radio host's back. "We'll figure it out, I promise. I'm a scientist; that's what scientists do, remember? It's the very definition of science."

Cecil laughed a little against his shoulder and pulled back. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it."

"But before you get too far," Cecil said, scooting closer to lean in for another kiss, his tone suddenly mischievous, “you've got to remember that every scientist needs a lab partner, and I'm the new _Mr._ Carlos the Scientist."

And that's how the Secret Police found them a few seconds later when they finally barged in after having waited the appropriate amount of city-mandated time.


	5. Coda

One Month Later

 

Cecil carefully seated himself on the chair in the center of the circle of bloodstones. Carlos was across the room near a smaller circle of bloodstones, pacing back and forth anxiously and staring down at the thick book in his hands. It was a manual on bloodstone rituals that Cecil had obtained via permit a week ago. Cecil had felt confident in his ability to remember the appropriate chants and configurations, but Carlos had insisted on following the instructions to the letter.

Cecil tapped his fingers on the side of his leg nervously, and then abruptly stood up and crossed back over to the smaller circle by Carlos to check the configuration for the third time.

Carlos would be standing in the smaller, protective circle while he chanted to activate Cecil's circle, and Cecil wasn't taking any chances with the scientist's safety.

They'd spent the last month going over every city law and ordinance that had been in effect on their anniversary, as well as the employee's handbook and old stone tablets at the radio station, and they could find no rule or loophole that said that Cecil couldn't have died that day.

Which left only one more major option, one that Cecil had been putting off in hopes of finding another solution: possession.

Ever since the whole incident with Lot 37, Cecil had a strict aversion to anything possessing his body apart from him. He owned nothing if not himself, and having that final sanctuary breached was...unforgivable. His mind wasn't always his own as it was—he was re-educated on what Carlos assured him was a frighteningly regular basis, and there were many other ways for the city to control his thoughts. But they had never breached the sanctity of his own body.

Satisfied Carlos' circle was properly arranged, Cecil walked back over to his own and dropped back down into the chair.

Carlos finished re-reading the chapter on possession for the umpteenth time and stopped pacing. He looked up, and Cecil could see the hesitation on his face.

"You're sure you want to do this?" Carlos asked, glancing back down at the book again.

"It should be perfectly safe," Cecil assured him. "It'll simply allow you to speak with any entities possessing me. Figure out as much as you can, and then we'll look up the appropriate exorcism when we're done. And if there's nothing possessing me, well, then, no harm no foul, right?"

Carlos frowned but stepped into the smaller circle nonetheless. "If it's so safe, I don't understand why I need a level 9 protective circle," he pointed out.

"It's just a precaution," Cecil assured him, discreetly glancing down at the bloodstones making up his own circle, making sure the appropriate stones were turned that would keep him trapped inside the circle until the ending chant had been finished. If whatever was possessing him hadn't attacked Carlos yet, the odds were that it wouldn't, but there was always the chance that it needed full control before it could strike.

"Might as well get it over with, then," Carlos said, shifting uncertainly in his circle. He placed his hand on the open page in the book, marking something with his fingers, and looked up at Cecil. "You ready?"

Cecil nodded and swallowed. "Be safe," he said, and then, after a moment's thought, quickly added, "I love you."

Carlos gave him a worried smile and started reading aloud from the book, carefully enunciating several of the unfamiliar words.

Cecil took a deep breath and leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes.

He zoned out for a moment and then Carlos' words suddenly became choked and broken.

He reached the last word and Cecil quickly opened his eyes to see Carlos, still in his protective circle, book lax in his hands, staring at him. There were a couple tear tracks down his cheeks, and he looked immensely worried. "Cecil?" he asked quickly, staring over at the radio host. He looked like he might be shaking.

"Er, yeah. What—?" Before Cecil could finish, Carlos was surging towards him across the circles, and the radio host barely had time to get to his feet before Carlos had knocked into him and enveloped him in a huge hug. All the air immediately left Cecil's lungs and he wheezed in protest as Carlos tightened his grip even further. The scientist buried his face in Cecil's shoulder and took several long, shuddering breaths, and Cecil could tell he was trying very hard not to burst into tears.

"Carlos," Cecil wheezed, and Carlos reluctantly loosened his grip and pulled away a little, though he kept a tight grip on Cecil's hand. Cecil glanced down at his watch on his other hand—the watch Carlos had given him—and blinked. When they'd started this, it had been two o'clock in the afternoon. Now it was four.

"Cecil, okay, I gotta tell you what happened," Carlos said shakily, noticing his confusion and stepping back and wiping at his cheeks. "Because you don't remember, right?"

"Um...no?" Cecil ventured. "So I am possessed? What is it?"

“It—um, he? He didn't quite know. He said he came from a mirror."

Cecil frowned at him. "A mirror?" An unpleasant memory was swimming to the surface, one of a broadcast just a few years ago, where he'd found some old cassette tapes of himself as a child that he didn't remember making.

"Cecil...he said you died when you were fifteen."

Cecil blinked at him. "What? But I'm right here!"

"You're immortal, Cecil."

The words hung in the air, but Cecil was only able to gape at him. "What?"

"I know it sounds crazy, but...it makes sense."

"But I'm not—I’m human! Humans are mortal!"

Carlos gazed at him sadly. "The last time you were mortal you were fifteen." And then Carlos filled him in on what the creature from the mirror had told him, recounting the story from the cassette tapes with frightening accuracy, and relaying to Cecil the sincere apologies of the creature possessing him.

"He never intended to kill you," Carlos explained from the floor, where they had both taken seats. "He just wanted to see a bit more of the world, that’s all. He was immortal, and had assumed that he’d turn mortal when he joined you, and he was okay with that. But instead it worked the other way around, and you became immortal instead."

Cecil frowned, processing this. "So if we exorcise him, I become mortal again."

"Yes. And that's why he's staying right where he is."

Cecil looked up sharply. "Hey! It's my body, I get to decide."

Carlos wouldn’t meet his eye. “I know, but it’s only because of him that you're still alive. He says you've died two hundred and fourteen times, not counting the million plus when you went into that damned subway."

“I— _what?"_

"You've been killed by Librarians and street cleaners—you were right about Steve, by the way—and executed by the City Council, and eaten by wolves, and dissolved in wormholes, and killed by debris and stray projectiles, and poisoned, and stabbed, and strangled, and Station Management got you four times, ‘cause you don't know when to shut up on the radio, and re-education killed you twelve times, two of them since I've known you, and StrexCorp killed you twice during their invasion, and you died at the opera right before I came home, and once you died right before a date—"

Carlos was on the edge of tears again, gesturing sharply as he stared down at the wood flooring, unable to meet Cecil's eye. Cecil, meanwhile, was staring at him in horror. He'd known he'd lived what sometimes seemed like a charmed life, but he'd assumed it was just because he was lucky, or because the town liked him—but here Carlos was saying that he was just like everyone else.

“And—dammit, Cecil, you do dangerous crap and it gets you killed. And not all of it was your fault, but I'll be damned if I'm going to sit here and let you get rid of the one thing keeping you alive!" Carlos' eyes flickered up to Cecil, and for once he looked a little angry. He was crying again.

“I—” Cecil was still trying to process the list Carlos had given him. Librarians? Wolves? _Really?_ He'd been killed by _wolves?_ How embarrassing. "I have no memory of...of any of this," he said at last.

Carlos exhaled shakily and looked down again, tracing his fingertips over the grain in the wood flooring. "He gets rid of it. He says he thought that, if you knew, you'd try to exorcise him, especially because of the Lot 37 thing." He glanced up at Cecil significantly and Cecil blinked guiltily and looked away. "So he always erased any pertinent details as to your death, especially because a lot of them were, um, painful." Carlos stared at the ground, and Cecil got the impression Carlos wasn’t telling him everything. "Mostly it was because you wouldn't be able to function knowing all that pain, and also because he knew you'd want to kick him out, and then you'd die, probably within the year, without him to resurrect you."

Cecil's mouth had gone dry. "And you, ah, believe him? He could be lying."

Carlos shook his head. "I don't think so. He...he really did sound sorry. And he said he wouldn't put up a fuss if you wanted to ditch him, even though he’d die without a host. He says he's just happy he got to experience humanity for this long. And that's why he let you remember dying this last time—because I was there, and because I'd just proposed, and because he didn't want to erase it, because you were so..." Carlos' cheeks colored as he stared determinedly at the floor. "Because you were so happy." Carlos' voice broke on the last note and he fell silent.

Cecil felt like Carlos was dismantling him piece by piece, laying him out for inspection. It seemed like Carlos knew more about him now than he did, knew secrets and stories he’d been forced to forget.

Cecil felt around in his consciousness furiously, looking for a trace of the creature possessing him, but felt nothing except his own thoughts. "I don't feel him," Cecil whispered.

Carlos sniffed, his shoulders shaking slightly with the movement. "He says he never strays from your subconscious. He's more than happy to just experience your emotions secondhand. He says he's not interested in controlling you. He just wants to feel, and he's sorry he put you through this by accidentally killing you in the first place. He'll go if you want, and he promises to not erase any more memories unless you ask him to. And Cecil, I can—I can keep watch, you know? Even if he does tamper with something, I'd notice that you don't remember. And if it starts going to hell in a hand basket, I know the exorcism." Carlos was looking up at him now, and though his words were carefully level, he couldn't quite mask the pleading in his eyes. "And I know it's your choice, but he's not _doing_ anything, and he's the only thing keeping you alive half the time."

Cecil thought that through, aware of Carlos' gaze upon him, waiting for his decision. He didn't like the idea of being possessed, even a little, but not dying sounded like a good idea too. He still wasn't sure if he could trust this thing, but Carlos trusted it, and he trusted Carlos.

"Okay," he said at last, flicking his eyes up to meet Carlos'. "Okay. He can stay."

Carlos gasped in relief and leaned forward to give him a tight hug. "Thank you."

"But if there's any funny business," Cecil added, "we might have to rethink this."

Carlos nodded against his shoulder in agreement. "Yes, yes, of course. _God,_ Cecil...some of those deaths sounded really horrible. He didn't want to tell, but I insisted. I'm so sorry I wasn't there."

Cecil forced a smile, even though Carlos was still crying into his shoulder and couldn't see. "You were there the one time I remember, and that's all that counts for me."

Carlos gripped him a little tighter, and Cecil's hand drifted automatically to his stomach, right where his fatal wound had been. There wasn't a scratch on him.

He stroked a hand through Carlos' hair and looked up and past him at the mirror hanging on the opposite wall, covered with a thick cloth as usual. He supposed he could uncover them all now. He tilted his head a little and mouthed his next words soundlessly, addressing them to the mirror. "Thank you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos are, as ever, appreciated.


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